


Sugar and Cyanide

by forestofsecrets



Series: Jokes are best told while laughing [1]
Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate universe - Mafia, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Guns, Joker Trap inspired, No Romance, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29094636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofsecrets/pseuds/forestofsecrets
Summary: You were an errand boy for your local mafia. You just wished you weren't reduced to running, well, errands.
Series: Jokes are best told while laughing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134653
Kudos: 2





	Sugar and Cyanide

**Author's Note:**

> The Shining Theatre themes have always been popular so I wanted to try them as well. This series is based off Joker Trap. I decided to write it now cause my boyfriend and I are watching Bungou Stray Dogs together, which is why I almost wrote Natsuki into it without thinking lol.
> 
> There's no romance in this series. It's not /reader despite being written in second person point of view. I mostly like the idea of being included in stories. Hopefully I'll be able to write a little scene with each of the four characters (Toki, Ren, Ran, and Myu) though I only have half written at the moment of posting.
> 
> Made on 01/12/2021 - 01/24/2021.

Your mother had always told you that there were two types of companies that would always exist in this world: utilities and banks. 

There were puddles on the concrete from the recent rain. You avoided them when you could, the back alleys you took made that difficult at times. The potholes were numerous, the obstructions in the narrow passer way more so. If you looked up, you’d see rusted air conditioning units, balancing on the edges of their windowsills stories above your head. You didn’t look up, lest the weight of your gaze be the final push one would need to slip off and crush you.

Everyone needed electricity and money. If you were going to invest your wealth in something, invest in either of those two. Well, you could barely scrape together a penny to your name so you figured you may as well invest your life instead. Luckily for you, there was one business that was involved in both and even luckier for you, they were hiring. 

The fringes of your coat scraped against the sides of the building you were squeezing by, coating the hem in a dark, unidentifiable grime. It would be the least of your worries if you weren’t able to deliver this message on time. The alleyway you were in ended, merging with a brightly lit main street. You stumbled out, momentarily confused on which direction to go next.

The position of errand boy for your local mafia branch had a high turnover rate but the position was secured, given you’d survive to see the next sunrise. The fresh mark on your wrist burned. The tattoo was only days young, barely old enough to remove the cellophane wrap from your skin. But barely enough was good enough in this business, especially when you weren’t likely to stick around anyways. 

The electric hum of transformers wasn’t lost in the shuffle of feet from the crowd. You slipped in, merely another face in the masses. This time, you were free to look up. The shop signs burnt neon, promising business in blue and pleasure in pink. You were looking for one in particular, a Japanese style candy store. An odd choice, if you asked yourself, but you weren’t asked.

When your job offer was put side by side with instructions on how to make your last will and testament, there was no turning back. The pen you had used to sign your name was the first ink to stain your otherwise uneventful life, signing your future away. No, that wasn’t quite how they put it, was it? It was the start of a new life.

The name of the candy shop was written in characters from the Latin alphabet, making it stand out from the kanji from the neighboring businesses. There was the charming jingle of a bell when you pushed the door open. The floor plan was tiny, barely enough square footage to live in. There didn’t seem to be any other signs of life. Yet boxes upon boxes of candy were crammed in, on top of each other and on shelves. It was a pastel nightmare and the scent of sugar alone was nearly enough to make your stomach turn.

You had to pick up an order. Or rather, you had instructions to buy certain items. You took a small, brightly coloured hand basket. The bigger than average KitKat bar was, thankfully, by the entrance in a cardboard display. You took one of the cherry blossom flavoured ones. The two pieces of blue raspberry rock candy you needed were further into the store. The jars of rock candy were squished between packages of sour gummies and sweet biscuits. You took two. That left three packages of lemon and peach pocky on your list.

It seemed this store made homemade pocky. It would explain the unusual flavour. It took some wandering around, careful not to knock anything over, until you found the pocky section. You had to bend down and squint at the handwritten labels, some smudged and missing. It took you longer than you’d like to admit to locate the sweet, counting up to three mentally as you put them in your basket. 

Having got all your items, next came the hard part. You approached the counter with an old man behind it. He wasn’t visible from the entryway and for a split second, you figured that couldn’t be good for business. But as you were emptying your basket in front of him and the sleeve of your overcoat slipped up just enough to make the design on your wrist visible, the unchanging look in his black eyes told you that this man was well used to being under mafia control. 

Younger men might have grumbled. They might have rolled their eyes and muttered under their breath about how they were being bled dry. They might have even tried to pick a fight with you, sniffing out your obvious inexperience. But this man had to be at least forty years your senior. He had a bent back, balding hair, and a crooked jaw that looked like it never managed to heal right. Every old man was young once, you supposed.

Without saying a word, your items were put into a bag. And then, hands disappeared under the counter and you froze. Given your position, you weren’t armed. If he was reaching for a weapon, you were royally screwed. Everyone had a breaking point. Your heart beat precariously until those hands came back up. They held out an envelope, shaking.

Your order was ready.

The unbroken stare let you know the shaking was from age, not fear. No thanks was offered and none was taken. The envelope was tucked in your coat, in one of the inner pockets. You took the plastic bag with the candy and as your hand closed around the crinkling handles, you hesitated. There was no exchange of money, you were well expected to take your items and go. It was frightening easy to get to used, turning on your heels and exiting the store. The welcome bell dinged dully behind you until the store door closed.

You continued on your way. It wasn’t until a few more blocks did the crowd thin. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say the fog in the air was leftovers from the rain. But the cloud of smoke that hung over you was from cigarettes; the nicotine stung your eyes. Loitering patrons at the sides of the road blew out their chemicals right when you were passing by them, you were sure. You were getting deep in your branch’s territory by now and you were a new face. If this was the extent of their hazing, you told yourself you could take it.

Taking a right under a flickering streetlight, you cut through another back alley. The lighting was poor at best and it was only a matter of time until your footing fell. You staggered when the ground beneath your foot gave way. The pothole filled with water was disguised in the low light. Your sudden intrusion into it not only soaked your foot but also splashed up on your coat, dirtying it further. Stepping out of it, you jerked your leg in a frenzy to clear the bulk of the muddy water off. 

You set off at a brisk pace, bothered by your own clumsiness. The plastic bag swung in your hand, under the influence of your determined steps. Your irked mindset was the reason why you proceeded into the adjoining alley without thinking too much about it.

Right into the horizontal barrel of a gun.

Chills shot down your spine. Your expression changed when you realized what you were looking at. It was the very weapon you had expected to be pulled out on your earlier. The black metal winked at you as your eyes went wide. 

“Who are you?” 

The question made you freeze. When you turned to look at the man who spoke, you realized instantly you’d rather keep your staring contest going with the gun. He was a few feet away from you and was probably the only one who didn’t have some sort of weapon pointed in your direction. You thought the look in his eyes could kill though, it was a look of hardened blue ice. That was saying nothing about his voice either, a deep growl. Glints of silver around you caught your eye and it was only then did you fully understand what situation you walked in on.

It was the aftermath of some dispute. Multiple bodies were scattered on the ground. They were motionless, absent of life. Your mouth went dry. Anonymous no-names were over the bodies, searching through their pockets and tearing through their clothing. Raiding their corpses, your mind helpfully provided. This business wasn’t one where the dead was respected.

You were taking too long, taking in too much of the scene around you. “I won’t ask again.” When his hand went for something under his coat, you finally understood how you were being given no more warnings. 

“M-m-message!” Whether it was an actual message or simply protection money, you had no idea. It was the only word that managed to make it past your lips in that moment. The man approached you, apparently you weren’t that much of a threat. It didn’t stop the sweat from breaking out on the back of your neck. It was a delayed adrenaline rush that you didn’t appreciate.

The high collar on his trench coat shadowed his face but given your proximity, you could see it well enough. He had a face that could be described as handsome by some. The high cheekbones made you wonder if he had foreign blood, not to mention the long, silverly-blond hair that framed them. Not that it mattered when he was pulling the trigger. 

“Give it to me, then.” The positions of authority were clear. He had command, you did not. He was the one issuing orders, you had to follow them. Your hand went into your coat, intent on retrieving the envelope. There were two things that stopped you: the pressing of the muzzle of a gun into the back of your head and the automatic criticism.

“No.” The rebuke came down hard. “The bag. Give me the bag.” The way he said it, like you should have known what he meant, had you confused. 

The bag? The bag of candy was what he wanted? Was this nothing more than a quick candy run and the envelope an afterthought? You were an errand boy, officially, but being sent running whenever someone had a craving for sugar kinda rubbed you the wrong way. You could only dumbly lift the plastic bag and hand it over to him. In a flash of movement much too quick for your eyes to follow, he had the bag of candy transferred to one of his hands while your wrist was grasped tight with his other. It was lifted above your head, closer to his eyeline. 

The full design of your tattoo was exposed. It was the spade suit from playing cards, fully coloured in with jet black ink. It identified which branch you worked for and who you worked under. It was a get out of jail free card or the signature on your death warrant, depending on who saw it.

Now, which would it be?

A gloved thumb passed heavily over the design, swiping at your skin in a rough manner. You winced as the tattoo stretched before rebounding back to its original shape. There was no leaking or smudging of the ink, something you were internally grateful for since it was now a permanent fixture on your body. Was he checking for something? Did he think the mark was fake? 

You were released without ceremony. The bruises his grip made were already forming under your skin, you could feel them tingling. There was the crinkling of plastic as the man peered into the bag before coming back to you. There was an accusation in his stare, or maybe it was the way he held his chin up at an angle. 

A movement from him and the pressure behind you disappeared. You had been, apparently, cleared of suspicion for the moment. “Well?” The envelope was taken out of your coat. You held it out, your hands bridging the gap between you first. There was nothing you could do to stop the tremble that possessed you. Your feeble state wasn’t commented on as he took the envelope to slide it into his own coat.

Your job was complete but you weren’t free to go yet. Your present state of dress was examined without a word. It made you swallow nervously as the man dragged his gaze down your body. The frown was unchanging. What he saw was swiftly met with disapproval. 

A quick glance down at yourself let you see what he was seeing. The edges of your coat were discoloured. There were several patches of drying mud visible on your pants and of course, one of your feet got the worst of it. Your unprofessional state of dress was commented on without reservation.

“You’re filthy. Never appear before me like that again.” 

You were dismissed.

**Author's Note:**

> I got distracted looking at pocky and kitkat flavours for like, an hour while I was writing this. It made me hungry... The next one up for this series is Ren.
> 
> Since I passed 100 posted stories, I'm doing a countdown of my favourites on [my tumblr](https://forestofsecrets.tumblr.com/tagged/my-writing). Check it out if you're curious about which ones I preferred to write and some extra thoughts on each story. This is my 102nd story that I'm posting so I have 2 on there so far.


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